


Ave Maria

by Scythe_of_Starlight



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Based on a Rare Attack Animation, Basically the Exact Opposite of Author's Last Bloodborne Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Features a Headcanon, Gherman (mentioned), Lovecraftian, Overtly Lovecraftian, The Old Hunter's DLC, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-02 23:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20254390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythe_of_Starlight/pseuds/Scythe_of_Starlight
Summary: She has fought to the death and killed many, so many Hunters in the past. She's laid eyes on many different Hunters from many different lifestyles......but none were more delusional than he.





	Ave Maria

**Author's Note:**

> Almost immediately after my last Bloodborne fic, I found it in me to write this one as well, starring a different Hunter this time (a Professional)! I fiddled with it till I was ready to post it. Whether it takes place before or after the fluff fic is anyone's guess.

The Hunter's first mistake was that he turned his head the wrong way and staggered as a result. Within the instant of doing so, Lady Maria had already closed the distance between them and struck him in the chest with such an unstoppable force that her hand went clean through, the Hunter with the torn face mask froze solid there, lurching forward only to sharply gasp for air. Painted a deep scarlet from the amount of blood and viscera that exploded from her impact, still, the warm and thick liquid sprays from his body through whatever gaps Maria’s arm had left open. The cold floor of the Astral Clocktower was bathed in their blood anyway.

Still standing on his feet and unable to comprehend what had just happened, the scholarly Hunter made his second mistake - this one more extreme than the last - in his momentary daze, he released his numbing grip and dropped his weapons. His deeply cherished Blade of Mercy and Repeating Pistol crashed to the sopping wet ground with splashes of glittering crimson, his now free hands were badly, badly shaken. His complexion now even paler than when Maria had first laid eyes on him. A face marked by the horrible scar of a burn around his left eye with two bright blue eyes that shone an icy haze over them, slowly looked over to Maria’s unflinching stainless silvers. Very quickly, the fear set in.

As he began - or attempted - to writhe and twist his way out of her grip, protesting with half strangled coughs and panicked inhales, Maria inched even closer to the foolish young man and softly placed her other hand on his bloodied back, stroking lightly as if to comfort him from the searing pain that lit his whole being. 

  
Calmly, Maria eased herself toward the Hunter's ear, where she tenderly whispered, “Be still now, Hunter…” against his flinching and frail resistance, she remains the same.

  
Hot tears of pure anguish flowed freely from his pale blue eyes as he desperately tried to escape _ somehow. _Stepping back on unsteady legs until he'd he slipped when his heel caught on something that squished unsettlingly in a large puddle of his own blood and he hit the stone wall behind them. Though his back - or whatever was left of it - did not meet the concrete bricks, for Maria's pitch red hand caught it for him, sparing him the extra agony.

  
Unable to get a decent grip on her intruding arm from the slickness of his blood drenched gloves, the golden haired Hunter resorts to weak kicks to try and pry Maria off of him. Not many land however.

  
Maria's eyes soften somewhat as they bare witness to the human equivalent to a scared and desperate animal doing anything it can to resist death’s approaching embrace. Considering how he recoiled back in shock at her suddenly grasping his wrist when he first tried to examine her “corpse”, then this must be _ terrifying _ to him. 

  
Through his panicked struggle, Maria thinks to herself. _ Would it be better to let him live now and be terrified of her if it meant that he would never step foot into this Clocktower again…? _ _  
_ But considering the extent of their battle and the amount of blood loss, such a thing as _ letting him live_, is already impossible.

  
With his face mask having been torn to useless shreds, the Hunter's gritted teeth do nothing to stop the flow of blood from seeping out from edges of his mouth. And yet he tries to speak,

  
“Ma-ahh…. Mari….a… D-Don't--don't do...this…. Ple-ease….” Pausing to cough up what must've been a mouthful of blood. “It hurts...please… I-It hurts…!”

  
Tightening her embrace on him, she quickly shushes his pleas.

“Be still and close your eyes Hunter, the pain will end soon.”

  
“But…” He gasps, “But… I don't…want to die…”

  
“It comes to everyone.” Maria somberly replies, “It's just your turn now.”

  
Sweat pours down the paling Hunter's scarred face, “Too much, work...left uh-undone…!” His eyes over their dark, overworked circles threaten to roll back.

  
“Your work is done now, there's nothing left for you to fret over, so be at ease.”

  
Upon Maria's elbow, she can feel the Hunter's heart thundering like mad in it's vain attempt to keep it's person alive after so much damage had been done to its surroundings. Maria can't help but have pity for him.

  
“But...Maria….” He tries to retort, “...y-...you don't understand…. I-I…!” 

  
Before he could finish, his weakening legs give out on him, sending him sliding down the Clocktower’s wall with nothing more than a gargled shriek and a dull thud as he collapses to his knees. Maria follows him down, not wanting to loom over him anymore than she does while they're both standing. Her hand is still lodged in his cooling chest.

  
“The...the three of us…”

  
“Please don't speak Hunter. Just close your eyes already.”

  
“...we can…** end ** this wretched Dream…!”

_ What is he saying…? _

“Together...Gherman, you, a-and... I…! We can--!” a violent coughing fit interrupts his dying speech, “--can! End this awful...awful nightmare…!! We can kill...the Great Ones… A-And awaken everyone…!”

The Hunter's eyes gleam with the last bit of life he has in him with his lips curl into a mania-wracked grin, it borders on falsely righteous madness and sends a chill down Maria's spine.

  
She knows that Cheshire smile all too well.

“The...Moon Presence is it's name…the Great One, wh-who cursed us all...! We can kill it...together!!” He wheezes.

_ This Hunter must be the academic type... _

“Everyone…..can be free…! Believe me...Maria…!”

_ ...to hold such delusions of grandeur. _

Though his heart was still beating, it was finally beginning to slow.  
  
“We c-...can save every...wha…?”  
Sluggishly, the blonde Hunter seems to notice something in the light of the massive revolving clockwork machinery on the other side of the room. There, standing there, are a group of silhouettes. Five in total. Two feminine, three masculine.

Seeing that he's not staring into her anymore Maria looks back to where his eyes went wide at to discover that nothing is there. Instantly she knows what's happening and asks the same questions as when the previous Hunters fought and died by her hand.

In the same calm voice she asks, “What is it, Hunter? What do you see?”

Everyone saw something different.

“.......f...five. Five...people… they're coming...closer...”

“Who are they? Can you see their faces?” She inquired, nuzzling up to his side to give him more room to see the phantoms. Some past Hunters saw their families, others saw their archenemies.  
  
He answers through labored breathing, “I see…. they’re smiling…? One of them…. Behind your shoulder...smiling at me…?” His eyes flutter shut for a second or two at the halfway blinding light they’re enveloped in before opening them against their iron-like weightedness.  
  
“Do you recognize them, Hunter?”  
  
And as if on her command, all at once, he remembers exactly who they are…  
  
...who they **were**.  
  
“My dearest friends…” the Hunter’s voice can only reach the level of a whisper, “...an experiment we con...ducted together…backfired… Triggered an explosion…..in our Dorm… I survived...they didn’t...” His raspy voice breaks with a sob, as the black shadows morph into the five people whom he’s spent his days with in the towering Academy of their home country.  
  
The blast hadn’t excused him enough for him to remain completely unscathed. Overlooking the nasty burn scar over his eye, the fumes of the chemicals had poisoned him to a point, the resulting sickness he was diagnosed with is eventually fatal and has no known antidote. This is why he first stepped into the cursed gates of Yharnam so close after his lonely graduation, for information on Paleblood and the method on how to access it.  
In simple terms: not to save himself, but to save others from suffering that slow and painful death, for forgiveness, for mere atonement.  
  
The closest young woman outstretches her translucent hand to the dying Hunter.  
  
At the sight, he turns away in shame, going limp in the process. “M...ari…..a… she wants me to…..join them...! Shield me…..shield...me, Maria…! I...I…it was my...!”  
  
Before he can blame himself, Maria shushes him again, “Quiet Hunter. Don’t be afraid, go to her, it’s time now.” she said, stroking his back past the dead weight he’s quickly becoming.  
  
Somehow...the Hunter can hear his friend’s voice, still with the crisp songbird like quality that used to haunt his guilt conjured nightmares.  
  
_“You look so tired, still the same workaholic I see. Come on, I’ll help you up.”__  
_  
But the Hunter refuses to look up, if not for the violent twitching, it would seem as if he were already dead. He can’t summon the energy to speak...  
  
The redheaded woman with long curls tilts her head towards him, she looks toward the others with a shy smile and a shrug. ‘_See? Told you I wouldn’t be able to convince him.’_ that shrug seems to say.  
At this, the glasses wearing young man with short brown hair shrugged in response, clearly expecting the same.  
The other freckled, dirty-blonde woman with hair the longest out of all of them throws her hands up in frustration, ready to step forward by herself before being stopped by the most muscular man of the group, who lightly grabs her by the back of the collar, he shakes his head in seeming defeat.  
But another, taller, black haired man steps forward with a catlike stride, that familiar smirk gracing his darker skinned face.  
  
_“C’mon man!” _he starts._ “You know you can’t walk on those legs! When anyone came to you needing help, you’d always stutter like a dumbass and accept, no matter what your schedule was looking like! Weren’t you supposed to be the ‘gentlemanly’ one in the group?”_  
The exaggerated air quotes remind the barely-breathing Hunter of how hard he tried to make himself available to the younger students, just how much he wanted to be a good upperclassman for at least one person to be inspired by…  
His smug childhood crush kneels down to his side and continues, _“So don’t be so stubborn for God’s sake! Let _**_us _**_help _**_you_**_ for once!” _he outstretches his hand like the timid woman before him.  
  
The confines of the Clocktower seem nonexistent as the warm light engulfs everything.  
The Hunter hesitated, looking back toward Maria through his blurring vision, who still kept her gentle embrace around him, the dullness in his eyes seem to be asking for permission.  
  
Silently, she nods. “Don’t keep them waiting.”  
  
Forcing the final ounces of his strength into his arm, the Hunter shakily lifted it, twitching his fingers to locate the awaiting hand he was reaching for. He felt no pain.  
  
Then finally…  
  
_“I gotcha!”__  
__  
_...their hands take each other with an audible clasp.  
  
The warmth of the light touches Maria’s skin with the radiating sense of happiness that surround the group of six friends. Five of them donned in the school uniform of an Academy she doesn’t know the name of, one of them looking a bit older than the rest and wearing a stainless, pristinely cared for set of Yharnam Hunter’s attire.  
  
The blonde turns back to the fearsome Lady of the Astral Clocktower with a smile that resonates with her,  
_“Goodbye, Lady Maria.”__  
__  
_  
The light disappears in the blink of an eye, the Clocktower returns to the silently tranquil atmosphere it always had. The former Hunter’s weapons lay forgotten in the red pool on the ground._  
__  
_With a compassionate smile to respond his, Maria cradles the room temperature body of the latest Hunter she’s been forced to kill in the name of keeping the secret of Byrgenwerth’s cruelty.  
Yet from the look in this Hunter’s eyes while describing his crazed savior plan...she can’t help but be glad that he wasn’t able to defeat her, a shudder courses through her at the thought of what would happen if he had.  
  
  
Even still, no matter what maddened delusions wracked his mind in his last days, she’ll be sure to make a grave for this young man as well. The dead deserve to be at rest after all.  
  
“Farewell, you Delusional Hunter.”  
  
  
"..."  
  
The Plain Doll stands in the Workshop of the Hunter’s Dream, carrying a bouquet of strangely familiar flowers, though she is unable to locate where or when she’s laid eyes upon them before.  
  
Walking with graceful steps in the neverending night she goes toward the garden, she stops by the creaked open door of the Hunter’s former room, overlooking the stacks of paperwork the Hunter left behind before travelling off into the night. When he first arrived, he spoke that he intended to simply document his experience in traversing the Dream, as he confessed that he’d “never been in a Dream world before” but it’s evident that he got extremely...distracted somewhere along the way.  
  
For it’s not just stacks of papers...nearly the entire wall was completely covered in scores of rambling messages, encrypted codes, finely illustrated pictures of people the Doll has not met, more illustrations of buildings and named organizations, and other illustrations of otherworldly beings filled with pulsating flesh, twisting tendrils, and deformed clusters of human-ish eyes that the Hunter has labeled as ‘**GREAT ONES**’ in blotchy red ink. All of them connecting to each other in some way by the scarlet thread he’s placed everywhere.  
  
Some written messages were done with such haste that they are almost unintelligible, others so filled to the brim with writing that the text is so small, one would need a magnifying glass to even attempt to make sense of it. There exist even a few that are scrawled in pages and pages of...**_things _**that only the Hunter would understand.  
  
The Doll’s keen memory told her that there’s one thing this Hunter adored above all else: Insight. His thirst for knowledge and yearning to understand the world around him had left him to go hunting for Insight more than he would with blood or beasts. In fact he seemed to hate the bloodstained nature of the Hunters’ duties, as he would always - without fail - take a good hour or even a few to wash the blood out his clothing until not even the faintest smell remained. He’d refuse to go out again until it was completely dry. He and Gherman got into more than a few arguments over his “laziness”, one time the maybe-too-punctual Hunter had to be driven away from his research by Gherman breaking out the Burial Blade and threatening to “wake [his dumbass] up in more ways than one'', never before had the Doll heard a Hunter scream like he did in that moment.  
  
She also remembers how the Hunter would always be on the hunt for information, his curiosity was unmatchable compared to other Hunters of the past.  
“What’s the history behind the Clinic in Yhar’gul?”  
“When was Yharnum founded?”  
“Why does night never set in the Dream?”  
“How did Gherman construct you?”  
“Who first discovered the nature of Paleblood?”  
“Do you have any information on the Vilebloods’ Ring of Betrothal?”  
“**WHAT THE BLOODLETTING FUCK WAS THAT!?**”  
...and other such inquiries.  
  
Perhaps his bottomless curiosity is what drove him to cover an entire wall of his room with so many manic writings. But the Doll can’t find it within herself to resent any part of him and his quirks. He would always greet the Doll with a wave or a Hunters’ Salutation after returning, and she would bow back in kind. During the times where he would proudly display a new illustration or a tale of the horrors he’s recently overcome, she would tirelessly listen to every word of his trials, tribulations, and exploits with only the highest amount of respect and admiration. After he held the gesture to Make Contact in the wrong direction, she gave a small applause when he fixed his posture. When he came back bruised, bloodied, and exhausted; she never failed to tend to his wounds and clean his chosen attire, no matter how much Gherman urged her to refuse and “teach his prissy ass a lesson” by not.  
  
But one time when the blood moon had arose, the overworking Hunter stumbled back to the Hunter’s Dream terribly frightened and barely able to stand, eyes wide and filled with a pitch darkness. He’d came running up to the Doll muttering warnings of “Hellish Gods”, “children of the Moon”, and things that the Doll was unable to make out amidst the strange strings of unknowable crypts. Once calm enough to speak coherently again, he shakily explained that he found an umbilical cord belonging to a Great One, or at least a portion of one. When coaxed enough to elaborate on what he did with it...the Hunter… suddenly grew physically ill enough to dry heave, eventually getting so sick as to spike a dangerous fever and vomit up a vicarious black ooze that continued to pour out of his eyes - like uncontrollable tears - in the following nights during his recovery.  
  
Vividly, the Doll remembers, taking it upon herself to calm the Hunter down with carefully prepared plates of food, warm drinks, and soothing his restless sleeps with lullabies and holding his cold trembling hand. Even after the black tears returned to normal.  
  
When the Doll asked the Hunter why he was so driven to collect Insight.  
His answer was simple, if vague:  
“I don’t know, it’s like the moon is calling for me.”  
  
The Doll has not a single doubt in her mind: that umbilical cord is what broke his mind.  
It wouldn’t be the first time. So long as the hunt continues, it won’t be the last.  
  
She places the bouquet of mysterious flowers down on his neatly made bed, kneeling down by the bedpost to finally bring her porcelain hands together in prayer.  
  
“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world.”  
  
  
In the moonlit garden, the Plain Doll sits alone with two papers she’s taken from her former Hunter’s room, they’d caught her interest too much to just leave them be before she locked the door for good. She’s sure that he wouldn’t have minded, given all the other secret plannings he’d let her in on as opposed to anyone else in the Dream.  
  
The paper in her left was a half completed illustration of her, sketched in colors so light one might need the moonlight to see it at all, it depicts a portrait of the Doll’s head down to her shoulders, she smiles a contented fashion with a pale pink blush to her round cheeks, looking toward the viewer as if to welcome them home.  
  
In her right; a paper that seemed to be blank, but to have it amidst the other ones that lay filled with madness, it just didn’t seem right. Sure enough the Doll suspected, when placed against a bright enough light, the paper was revealed to have writing on it after all.  
Holding it up to the moonlight as with the paper in her right, it read:  
  
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̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡M̶̸̨͏̪͙̱̜̱̝͇̟̦̭̬̣̱͕͓̙̬̤Ơ͇̘͙̰͔͚̬͈̻̱̹͍̤͘Ǫ̺̭̯̼̦̝͉̦̠̞̜͈̦͓Ṋ̡͍̯̩͓͈̖͖̥͎̗̺̣̞͍͇̖͘P̷̦̲̥̗̪̩͖͕̖̘͚̬̠͞R̴̸̪̱͇̲͈͓̩̮̬͙͓̘̲͎̦̮͚̙̟E̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̶̸̨͏̪͙̱̜̱̝͇̟̦̭̬̣̱͕͓̙̬̤Ơ͇̘͙̰͔͚̬͈̻̱̹͍̤͘Ǫ̺̭̯̼̦̝͉̦̠̞̜͈̦͓Ṋ̡͍̯̩͓͈̖͖̥͎̗̺̣̞͍͇̖͘P̷̦̲̥̗̪̩͖͕̖̘͚̬̠͞R̴̸̪̱͇̲͈͓̩̮̬͙͓̘̲͎̦̮͚̙̟E̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̶̸̨͏̪͙̱̜̱̝͇̟̦̭̬̣̱͕͓̙̬̤Ơ͇̘͙̰͔͚̬͈̻̱̹͍̤͘Ǫ̺̭̯̼̦̝͉̦̠̞̜͈̦͓Ṋ̡͍̯̩͓͈̖͖̥͎̗̺̣̞͍͇̖͘P̷̦̲̥̗̪̩͖͕̖̘͚̬̠͞R̴̸̪̱͇̲͈͓̩̮̬͙͓̘̲͎̦̮͚̙̟E̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̶̸̨͏̪͙̱̜̱̝͇̟̦̭̬̣̱͕͓̙̬̤Ơ͇̘͙̰͔͚̬͈̻̱̹͍̤͘Ǫ̺̭̯̼̦̝͉̦̠̞̜͈̦͓Ṋ̡͍̯̩͓͈̖͖̥͎̗̺̣̞͍͇̖͘P̷̦̲̥̗̪̩͖͕̖̘͚̬̠͞R̴̸̪̱͇̲͈͓̩̮̬͙͓̘̲͎̦̮͚̙̟E̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̶̸̨͏̪͙̱̜̱̝͇̟̦̭̬̣̱͕͓̙̬̤Ơ͇̘͙̰͔͚̬͈̻̱̹͍̤͘Ǫ̺̭̯̼̦̝͉̦̠̞̜͈̦͓Ṋ̡͍̯̩͓͈̖͖̥͎̗̺̣̞͍͇̖͘P̷̦̲̥̗̪̩͖͕̖̘͚̬̠͞R̴̸̪̱͇̲͈͓̩̮̬͙͓̘̲͎̦̮͚̙̟E̢͡҉̵͓̪͓̙͓̯̤̤͇S̨̖̜̗̰̻͕͉͔̩̞̱̕E̷̫̯̳̲̣͜͜N͏͟͜҉̘̜͍̟͙̘͕̠̭͓̱̞̣͕͘C̡̛͏̪̪̞̤̦͓̯̖̮̫̟̗͈E͖̥̭̩̠͘M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡.M̮̯̣͓̭͇̱̳̔͛̍̍͋͛̍̽̕͡Ỏ̻̱͕͕̔̍͋͛̃̌̕͢O̵̘̗̬͎̥̭̬̿̾̊̿̒̄̾̔N̨̡̤͇̪͔͖̓̌͌͊͒̾̈͠͠Ṕ̢̺̬͈̬̈́̅͊͒̈́͗̃̚͟͢͠R̛̳̠͙̝̖͈̖̝̹̭̽̽̌̂̈́̉Ë̵̠͔̙̖̝̓͋̐̅̕̕͝S̵̻̰̣͉͎̏̌̓̈͊̚͘͢ͅĘ͓̗̦̻̟̘̇̓̓̕͘̚͢N̶̢̢̢̡͙͓͙̻̯̭̂̆̄̾͘͘Ç̶̨̩̯̥͙͇͔̥̄͗̀͐̿̚̚͝Ẻ̡̢͍̱͇̳̩̣̀̆͢͡...****  
****  
****  
****  
  
**...until it dissolves into nothing but blackened scribbles and what smells to be droplets of long dried blood.

The Doll holds both of the papers close to where her supposed heart must be, cherishing them like no other and sighs to herself.  
“I wonder what he was planning to achieve with this knowledge…” She chuckles softly, with a flicker of genuine wonderment.  
“He was _ so _ close…”

.

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon that Maria has the ability to awaken Hunters after learning it from Gherman. But if this Hunter died or was awoken is something I don't even know.
> 
> Either way, thank you so much for reading!


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